


A (Small, Blue) Tale (In Which Control is Found to be Overrated)

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-17
Updated: 2008-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ancients were a bunch of control freaks, Rodney's decided; he has a fifteen page spreadsheet in which he keeps track of the mounting evidence of this fact, all of which can be rendered into several pleasing graphics; sometimes he pulls up a pie chart in a morning just to kick start his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A (Small, Blue) Tale (In Which Control is Found to be Overrated)

The Ancients were a bunch of control freaks, Rodney's decided; he has a fifteen page spreadsheet in which he keeps track of the mounting evidence of this fact, all of which can be rendered into several pleasing graphics; sometimes he pulls up a pie chart in a morning just to kick start his day. But nothing – nothing – says 'control freak' like the pools they find on level seventeen; eight pools, fifteen feet long and eight feet wide, one to a room, each equipped with a powerful jet so that anyone who chooses can swim in one place, pushing against the current, the hydro-electric version of a treadmill.

"Their city sat on an _ocean_ ," Rodney protests when John grins with glee at the discovery. "Ocean! Water! Everywhere!"

"Yeah, but these are _cool_ ," John says, and Rodney's forced to bounce his forehead off the wall a couple of times, mostly for show.

The pools are popular; Sam has Mortensen in data management set up an online reservation system, and Rodney loses count of how many people wander past him in a given day, smelling faintly of chlorine and walking loose-limbed; he swears swimming makes you amble funny. John, however – John's always walked funny, so it's not until Rodney checks the online reservation system one day (just to see who he should be scorning the most – it's not like _he's_ a control freak; he just likes to be fully informed about the workings of everything and anything going on in the city at any given time), that he realizes why John's been rolling out of bed at five every morning. It's because he's swimming – 5.10am on the dot, every day, when pretty much no one else is around, and then he's likely going on a run with Ronon just the same as always, because he's a freakish masochistic weirdo who needs to learn the value of staying _still_. _God_.

Next morning, John rolls out of bed same as usual, and Rodney half-wakes, mumbles something, just like he always does, when John smudges a half-conscious kiss to his forehead and heads out the door. Only now Rodney can't sleep – not because of the kiss; he's used to dropping back to sleep after a spot of ritual slobber – but because he's suddenly thunderstruck by an important realization:

John must wear swim trunks. In the pools.

Rodney didn't even know John _owned_ a pair of swim trunks – the few times he's seen him head into the ocean, or wash off the stink of a _wasnup_ off-world, he's just stripped down to his boxers and done his thing. But this is different; this is the dedicated pursuit of a particular form of exercise, and Rodney has difficulty believing that John undertakes it without being suitably clothed; his ample supply of running gear suggests he has very particular ideas about exertion and forms of dress. But swim trunks, Rodney supposes, are very small things, easy to crumple up and stuff to the back of a drawer or hide in a sock or whatever it is Lieutenant Colonels do with their tiny articles of swimwear.

Tiny. Oh god. Tiny trunks that John uses for _swimming_.

Rodney rolls onto his back and yep, his cock's with the program already, perking up under the sheets as Rodney's brain thinks of John's bare back and the reach of his arms. He imagines John in the pool – he surely swims freestyle – visualizes him coming up for air beneath the arc of one arm, thighs flexing against the current and . . . oh, oh dear, there is _no way_ he can sleep with that picture in his head, none at all, and it's ridiculous, patently ridiculous, because it's not like he doesn't see John naked all the time. But _swimming_ – all that power harnessed, and everything on show save for parts covered by very small trunks and . . .

Rodney throws back the sheets. Trunks he didn't know about! Clearly he needs to know their color, or his fantasies will be forever derailed.

There are ways to handle this, Rodney thinks – sensible ways like rigging up security cameras in the pool rooms or, god forbid, actually asking John the color of his trunks and why didn't he mention the swimming and oh god are they breaking up? But Rodney's feeling suddenly impetuous – or entirely out of his mind, he can't exactly tell – and he dresses in the first pair of sweats and t-shirt he can find, sallies forth into the hallways of the city barefoot, takes a circuitous route to the pools, because his feet suggest he really shouldn't be seen. He knows John always swims in pool number five, so when he reaches the complex he barges inside, swimmers be damned, waves his hand at the entrance to the appropriate room and lets himself in, wrinkling his nose at the faintly chemical smell of the water that even Ancient tech can't hide.

Oceans - _right outside the windows_. Seriously.

John's swimming – freestyle, Rodney notes with satisfaction – in the opposite direction, face dipping into the water and out again. Rodney studies him, the slight curve of his fingers and the way his shoulders rock, the vulnerable pink underside of both his feet, the flash of blue that has to be his trunks. It's mesmerizing – blue, blue, blue – and Rodney's suddenly aware of how tired he feels, how crazy this is, how crazy he's become, how he maybe should reassess his relationship with the concept of control no matter how many unpredictable punches the galaxy sees fit to throw, thereby making him unduly fond of knowledge and order, and so he leans back against the wall in a baffled trance, watching John's body flex and reach. So what if John likes to swim – there's a surfboard in their bedroom, so it's hardly surprising, and actually shows a remarkable amount of forethought and self-preservation for someone so fond of risking the far edge of suicide – and he looks good while doing it, looks _very_ good, looks lean and lithe and other words beginning with L which cause Rodney's cock to perk up again in his pants. He probably has a stupid smile on his face, Rodney thinks, but hell, if he can't smile while watching John eel through the water, mostly naked, when can he?

And that's when John turns off the current and stands up in the pool.

For a second there's a shifting silence, as water runs down the planes of John's back. Rodney feels his mouth go dry with a thirst it's likely nothing can parch but the drops of water clinging to John's skin – and oh god, Rodney thinks, he's lost it completely if his internal monologues are now showing up in prose reminiscent of Jeannie's clandestine romance novels that she hid from their parents in the bottom of Rodney's laundry basket when she was fourteen; which means he's utterly unprepared when John turns his head, quirks an eyebrow, says, "Rodney? What the hell?" And climbs out of the pool.

There's a towel folded at the pool's edge. "Don't!" Rodney says, waving a hand. "Don't . . . use that!"

John stares at him warily.

"Just – I didn't know you liked to swim and then I knew and it's _totally_ okay, I mean, you don't have to tell me everything, I mean that sincerely, not in some passive aggressive Kavanagh fashion where what he says is actually the opposite of what he means which, now I think about it, is actually irony not passive aggression, although it's entirely possible that it can be both, but – but today was the first day that I knew and you _went_ and I wondered what color your trunks were, you see, and I had to know because, well . . ."

John drips and looks at him warily. "Blue?" he says.

"Yes." Rodney swallows. "Yes, yes, I can see that. Would you look at you?" He walks toward him, gesturing haphazardly at the overall oeuvre of muscles and tan skin and the tiniest swim trunks the universe has ever created. He makes a helpless noise because that's what he is, helpless, spinning, without a way to control this enormous thing he feels for John even when he's not mostly naked and wet, so he steps in, kisses John hungrily, happy to let his sweats and t-shirt soak through, groans when John's hand cups the back of his neck.

"Got a thing?" John asks in a patently unfair whisper, right into the shell of Rodney's left ear.

"Nnnngh, m-maybe?" Rodney says, a flush rising up from his chest to his temples, and he pushes John over to the wall, encourages him to turn around. "I just – I like . . ." And he kisses John's shoulder, laps up the water lingering there, sets his hands on John's narrow hips and noses a path over to his spine.

"Oh," John manages intelligently, head falling forward as Rodney mouths first one vertebrae, then the next. "Okay. It's a . . . you know. And I . . ." He shivers and quiets as Rodney presses his thumbs into his skin, laps up water. Intoxicated – _I'm drunk!_ Rodney thinks one notch below hysterical – he clears his throat, leans forward, murmurs, "Take your weight," shocked at what his brain wants his hands and tongue to do, shaking with it as he drops to his knees, mouths the base of John's spine, the waistband of the trunks, then pulls back just enough to ease the tight, elastic fabric from the curve of John's ass. "Just . . ." He swallows, all the words in his head running headlong into one another, clogging his throat as he drags the trunks down John's long thighs.

John steps out of the trunks without complaint, but he's trembling when Rodney touches him again, silent until Rodney leans in against him, spreads his cheeks, licks up the water that's trickled into the crease of his ass. He gasps at the first touch of Rodney's tongue, lets out a strangled little moan on the second, and by the third, fourth, fifth, infinity, he's rocking back against Rodney's face, needy and growing louder with every lick and kiss. Rodney hums happily, high on sound and taste and the body that's vibrating against his mouth, John parting around his tongue, warm and powerful and damp. John chokes off a curse, and Rodney pulls back, noses the rise of one cheek, murmurs, "You can touch yourself," and John whimpers, says, "Can't . . . can't balance, can't . . ." So Rodney licks again, lets go of John's ass with one hand, reaches around to find his cock, damp from pool water and pre-come and sweat. He thumbs the head, runs his nail down the vein on the underside of John's erection, hums and sucks and strokes John fast until he's coming against the wall, spilling over Rodney's fingers, his knees flat-out buckling, falling so quickly it's all Rodney can do to catch him, to ease him down against the tile and lick up the mess on his thighs and belly while John shivers and sighs.

When Rodney's done, John's still panting; Rodney smiles when John opens his eyes, smiles wider when he realizes the effort it's taking John to focus on his face. "Urrgh," John manages, eyes closing again, and Rodney leans in to kiss him, to share the taste of what they've done, where they are, to feel the rasp of John's morning stubble beneath his lips and to realize exactly how turned on he still is. "On me," John murmurs, and Rodney shudders hard, pulls back, takes in the lazy heat warming Johns gaze.

"Really?" he asks, sounding strangled even to his own ears, and he's wholly unprepared when John fumbles with his sweats, freeing his cock, nods at the trunks and says, "Those'll be damp."

Rodney grabs the base of his cock, because _Jesus_ , even post-coital and full of sex-related stupid, John Sheppard _should not be allowed_ , but he reaches for the trunks, rubs the damp fabric over his cock. It feels obscene – soft, cool against his overheated skin, and when John's hand joins his, squeezing the trunks around his shaft, his hips buck, his orgasm tearing up from the base of his spine, and he spills all over John's swim-flushed skin.

"You know," John says as Rodney thuds gracelessly down beside him, "you could've just asked."

"Shut up," Rodney mumbles, drawing circles with one finger against the palm of John's hand. "Just . . ." He yawns and noses against John's shoulder. "Be the death of me."

And John snorts and rolls over, pins Rodney to the floor while he kisses him with far too much focus and heat for someone who just fell to his knees from coming. "I could call off my run."

"Call off _life_ ," Rodney protests. "Call off everything but bed. Sleep. Maybe more swimming . . . "

John laughs into the damp, flushed curve of Rodney's neck.


End file.
